


conviction

by simaetha



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Abuse, I Don't Even Know, Idfic, M/M, Manipulation, Referenced Offscreen Torture, Sauron's A++ Planning Skills, hurt/comfort???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 12:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11441328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/pseuds/simaetha
Summary: Annatar sets out to win Celebrimbor's trust.





	conviction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLionInMyBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/gifts).



> Inspired by [this](http://thelioninmybed.tumblr.com/post/157453287962/mmm-what-about-person-a-whump-in-front-of-an) idea from TheLionInMyBed <3

 

 

“But why confine yourself so?” you ask, propping your chin on your hands and smiling at Tyelperinquar. “With the power these works will bring – “

“ _Power_ can be misused,” Tyelperinquar says, stiffly. “That isn’t what I meant – “

You allow your smile to falter, showing instead confusion, the faintest trace of hurt. Around you are the comfortable furnishings of Tyelperinquar’s study, papers spread out on the table around you and diagrams pinned up on the walls – the long work of your collaboration, set out in the elegant lines and scribbled notes around you, so close to completion.

“But _you_ would never misuse it, surely,” you say, all innocence. “Tyelpe, I don’t understand.”

He sighs, and you let him take your hand, clasping it in his. He doesn’t meet your eyes, instead studying the interlock of your fingers, expression troubled.

You study him, in turn: the tangle of braids; the work-calloused fingers, faint scars threading over the delicate skin. Sharp cheekbones, dark lashes.

“Annatar,” he says, at length, “what _did_ you do during the War?”

You react to keep your sudden tension from revealing itself to his touch, suppressing the instinct of the body with a conscious effort. It is not, at all, the question you expected.

Tyelperinquar is, himself, beginning to trouble you in some respects. You find him too useful to discard, but –

“I’m afraid I don’t have much talent for combat, even in the way of my kind,” you say ruefully. “No, come, Tyelperinquar, even I can’t excel at _all_ things! There was work enough for Aulë’s servants away from the field, countering the machines and devices of the Enemy – and those of the one you call _Sauron_.” You don’t have to pretend your shudder of distaste at the foul name. “Why do you ask?”

He contemplates your hand a little longer.

“It’s only – “ he says, at length. “How can I explain it, if you weren’t there to see? We saw so much of our work turned to ill ends – no, that’s not true. We turned it to ill ends ourselves, because if we did not answer the Enemy in kind we would have lost, and - that would _always_ have been worse, than anything we could do – “

He breaks off, and you tighten your grip on his, attempting to reassure.

“But Morgoth is _gone_ ,” you say, insistently. “Tyelperinquar. Can’t we leave the past behind?” You smile at him, trying to catch his gaze. “Don’t you trust _me_ to help you use our work well together?”

“I – “

A pause. You keep your smile in place.

“Of course,” he says, at last.

You had _expected_ him to apologise for ever doubting you. Showing yourself hurt by his suspicion no longer has the effect it once did.

The problem is that the qualities you require in Tyelperinquar – intellect; curiosity; a refusal to let a question go unresolved – are the same ones that cause such difficulties. It’s not that the story you’ve given him is flawed, only that – you have revealed enough of yourself to him to demonstrate that you are no lesser, forgettable spirit, of the sort who might easily go unremarked in song and tale. You can hardly fault him for seeing it.

You turn again to the papers spread around you, watching his eyes flicker again over the spell-equations and carefully plotted lines of force. Still frowning, slightly, even as you try to draw him back onto your research together.

Well. You can be convincing. You haven’t come this far to lose Tyelperinquar’s trust _now_.

***

“It shouldn’t be a long trip,” you say, cheerfully, twisting your hair up in travelling-style. “The Dwarrowdelf isn’t far from here, after all.”

“I suppose telling you to take care would be beside the point,” Tyelperinquar says, half-smiling, trying – you think, fondly – not to show his unease. “But we _have_ had problems along there lately – “

You know perfectly well that the road along the banks of the Sirannon has been subject to banditry lately. You arranged it that way yourself.

“Are you _worrying_ about me, Tyelperinquar?” you say, arching a brow, picking out a few lesser pieces of jewellery with deliberate inattention. “I don’t expect a few outcast mortals to be much of a concern for _me_.”

He hesitates.

“Even so,” he says, resting a hand on your arm. “I – will you let an escort come with you, anyway?”

“If it eases your mind, I suppose – “

You beckon at him for assistance, and let him slide the delicately-worked electrum through your ears, tilting your head to help him work. You will be a little sorry to lose it, on reflection.

It isn’t _mortals_ he worries about, of course. You’re not such a fool as to have missed the nature of the rumours Galadriel keeps spreading. Some dark power rising in the East, some remnant of Melkor’s servants –

You serve no-one but yourself, now. You do find the superstitions of the Eldar _aggravating_.

Well. If Galadriel insists on finding an enemy – and on troubling Tyelperinquar with her fears – you will make sure there is an enemy for her to find. A little extra effort to present matters properly should be more than enough to free yourself from suspicion, at the same time.

Also, you won’t be sorry for the excuse to spare yourself from visiting Khazad-dûm for a while. You really feel that Aulë’s creations fail to extend you the reverence surely due to one of his Maiar: it’s not as if _they_ know of the less-than-amicable terms on which you and he parted ways.

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” you tell Tyelperinquar, closing your jewel-box and smiling at him, until his expression lightens in response. “Of course, if you really are _entirely_ unable to manage without me – “

“Fine, _go_ ,” he says, making a face at you, and you laugh at him.

***

It isn’t very far along the road before the attack comes, though far enough to prevent easy rescue from the city. You see no point in drawing things out.

The river sings nearby, running swiftly over stone, screened from you by the dense growth of trees. Birds call back and forth to each other, then fall silent, the breeze rustling the slender branches and sharp-tipped leaves of a stand of holly at the roadside.

“Ware!” a guard calls, over the sound of the water, head jerking up –

The arrow takes her in the throat.

You blink, taking care to appear surprised.

Things happen quickly, after that. Your escort attempt to close ranks: the first of the attackers start to break from cover, the sudden rush and shout of the attack over the continuing hiss of their archers’ shots. Your guards draw their swords; only a couple have carried their bows strung, expecting easily-cowed bandits rather than warriors.

Keeping order in battle of any kind is largely dependent on the discipline of the combatants, which is often poor. Directed through layers of command, intended to obscure your own involvement while leaving certain careful hints in place, those left to execute your plans on this occasion are, frankly, blunt tools. Mortals swayed by pride and anger to think they can resist the increasing encroachment of both Eregion and Númenor into their ancestral lands –

Men are so easy to turn against each other that you could almost feel sorry for them. You mean to bring them better governance, in time.

A stray arrow slants towards you; you bat it aside in absent reflex, watching it fall to splinters in the air. The fight is starting to be joined in earnest, and your guards are only lightly armed, against trained and prepared opponents. The conclusion seems in little doubt.

It’s surprisingly difficult to play at meekness. You put some thought into the selection of your companions – you resisted the urge to suggest only the most irritating of Tyelperinquar’s associates accompany you, but had no desire to throw away real talent on the exercise – and yet you still feel a certain sense of _waste_.

Another guard cries out, a sword taking him between the ribs, blood gurgling from his mouth.

You have no wish to pretend your abilities are less than they are; that would be seen through too easily. Instead, you pretend –

You think of the West, and the Valar’s long, cavilling debates over Middle-earth, torn between fear of Melkor and fear of _themselves_ , their own powers, how _easy_ it was to cause _damage_. Even in the War – you made enough use of it, how Eonwë and his ilk would flinch and hesitate before striking down such fragile things as mortals, as if more afraid of bloodying their own hands than of any real fight.

You affect a similar tender care, defending yourself as ineffectually as you imagine any of Manwë’s servants might, until the last of your remaining guards are cut down. A few have fled; you hear the distant sounds of pursuit fading after them.

Surrender is easy enough. You put on an appearance of shock as one of your assailants sets a sword to your throat, holding your hands up as if the lack of a weapon had any relevance.

“Bind him,” one of them snaps, wiping blood from his face. “He’d _best_ be worth everything they say he is – “

“I _surrender_ ,” you say, wide-eyed, as his companions grab at your wrists. “Surely – “

You aren’t used to being ignored, but the effect is everything you could have asked for. Mortals are so _predictable_ , you think, trying not to smile.

***

“What do you know,” one of your captors says, voice tight, “about _rings_?”

The camp is makeshift, shelters set up here and there; your attackers had methodically looted the site of the battle, with the air of soldiers for whom recovery of arms and weapons held more urgent appeal than sentiment. The bodies had been left to rot – unsightly, but likely to make a fine impression on would-be rescuers.

You put on your best look of confusion, sitting back comfortably on your heels. Having your hands bound behind you is only a minor inconvenience.

“The ornamental kind?” you ask. “A fair amount, I suppose – is there any particular aspect that interests you – “

Another swears under her breath.

“The – rings of _power_ ,” she says, urgent with something more than exasperation. “That you witch-lords hold in your city – we were _told_ – “

Her commander – is it her commander? – glares at her, and she quiets, but with a mutinous expression.

The worn fabric of the tent shifts a little in the breeze, a guy-rope creaking. Hung from the ceiling, an unlit lantern sways, the cheap metal dented and thin.

There is a balance to be struck, as to how much knowledge you let your captors have of you, how detailed the instructions you pass on, without risking the plan through overcomplication. Your lieutenants have, clearly, managed to provide sufficient incentive for them to act as you intend.

And, truly, all you have needed to do is set the pieces in place, and let them fall as they may. Fear, greed, cruelty – mortals so rarely use power _wisely_.

You think of the sort of sanctimonious reaction one of the Valar’s servants might show, at such a question, and arrange your face in disappointed lines.

“I know something of these things,” you say, gently. “But such knowledge is not mine alone to give, nor may it be taken by force.”

It is, you think, the sort of response that even Galadriel would have to approve. You feel rather proud of it.

They glance back and forth at each other, uneasily.

“They _said_ he wouldn’t want to tell us,” your questioner says, at length. Her hair is plaited back with patterned lengths of ribbon, faded and fraying at the edges. “They said we’d need to – hells, who cares if he knows we have allies? So much the better for us, if these witchlings know we’re not alone – “

“Enough!” her commander says, sharply, with an expression of frustration. “Fine. Let’s get this thing done.”

***

They blindfold you. You indulge them to the extent of not mentioning how trivial a restriction on your senses this actually is.

You wonder how practised your captors actually are – without proper instruction and tools, mortals often have only the crudest idea of how to go about extracting information. Still, you expect them to manage enough to leave an adequate impression.

Galadriel is, for all her faults, no fool; Tyelperinquar trusts you, but not _unquestioningly_ so. You need to put yourself beyond doubt – to ensure that suspicion cast at your own role is unthinkable. And the valiant Noldor so rarely understand submission to a greater purpose; in your experience, they must slowly and painfully be instructed in its virtues.

Elves are so easily distressed by physical injury – to others, as much as themselves. A little bloodshed is a remarkably trivial price to render your position unassailable.

“The _rings_ ,” one of your captors is saying. “Where can we find them? How do you _make_ them? It’s not too late to tell us – “

“What do you even _want_ them for,” you say aloud, in mild curiosity. “It’s not as if you could use them, even if I gave them to you.”

“ _Liar_ ,” the voice snaps. You can hear the sound of pacing; a rustle of movement. The clink of metal.

Then –

You do feel pain. That can’t be helped.

***

The indignity is the worst of it, such as it is.

 _Not the face, not the hands_ , your lieutenant has instructed them. They have no idea who you are, no idea whom they treat in such a manner.

You could stop this. You could stop it at any time. You don’t _need_ to make it _stop_ –

***

At length, a disturbance becomes apparent from outside the tent walls; your interrogator, frustrated, puts down her tools. Movement; then she yanks off the blindfold, crouching down beside you, looking at you intently.

You look back at her. Something changes in her face; she pales.

“You – “ she starts, and flinches as she meets your eyes.

You are entirely certain she has no idea who you are. The most difficult part of this whole exercise has been ensuring they are not put in too much terror to lay hands on you.

“Second thoughts?” you ask, meaning it to come out smooth and unperturbed. Your voice rasps a little, mouth dry; you lick at the inside of your cheek. Sweat dampens your hair; some of your muscles are trembling, despite your best efforts at stillness.

The body already struggles to heal itself; to staunch bleeding, draw together wounded flesh in an urgency of division and regrowth, new tissues crawling into place.

This would all be to no purpose if you were _unaffected_.

“We _need_ – “ she says, her voice cracking a little. “You don’t understand, we’re _dying_ – “

“The mortal condition,” you say, pleasantly enough, and smile at her, blood on your teeth.

She startles back, off balance, half-falling; grabs at the tent-post, stumbling to her feet, fluid smearing from her hand onto the wood. You smile, again, and she flinches full-body, as if struck.

“What _are_ you?” she starts to say, her speech wavering.

You look past her shoulder, and let your eyes widen, biting your lip.

She starts to turn.

“Tyelperinquar,” you say, voice still weak, letting your hair fall back from your face; watching his expression twist as he looks at you and steps into the tent.

“Please – “ your captor starts to say, scrabbling behind her for a weapon, fingers shaking.

You admit to a certain satisfaction as he barely glances at her before raising his sword to cut her down, the blow pinning her between the ribs as she gasps and dies, her empty hand falling away.

***

Tyelperinquar has little reputation as a warrior, but he and his have more than sufficient skill for such a rabble of outcasts. The raiders are ill-equipped to offer much resistance, taken by surprise in turn, falling before they can muster a defence.

Still, Elves do have the strangest notions of _fairness_. Convincing the people of Eregion to slaughter their captives would be more effort than you really care to manage, especially when they should have such useful stories to tell.

“Annatar – “

“Of course I’ll be well, now that you’re here. At last,” you say, smiling wanly at Tyelperinquar, pretending not to notice the way he winces at the phrase. “I suppose I should have listened to you, after all.”

“I’m the one who should have warned you better,” Tyelperinquar says, bitterly. “I didn’t realise – I should have _known_ – “

He hasn’t left your side. You could hardly have hoped for a better result.

“You could scarcely have anticipated this,” you say, sweetly. You hold out a hand, despite the stiff ache in your muscles, and let him come to you, pleased by his instant response to the gesture. “Of course our research would have to attract attention eventually, but this certainly exceeded _my_ expectations – perhaps we’re on a more promising track than even I had realised.”

He tenses.

“Our research,” he says. “Annatar, were they – “

“Has no-one said?” you say, as if surprised. “They kept trying to ask me about the Rings – it hardly seemed wise to tell them, of course – “

You know Tyelperinquar well enough to read his emotions easily: guilt, pain, a steely determination underneath it, as the pieces start to fall into place.

“Annatar,” he says, carefully, looking at you steadily. “Did they say _why_ – “

You glance aside, pretending fatigue, letting your hand tremble a little in his.

“Later?” you ask, your voice weak. “I – when we’re _home_ , behind the city walls – “

He hesitates. You can guess the calculation, that if his people have an enemy they need to _know_ , that some have already died for whatever information you have.

You flinch, very slightly, letting him see the tension in your shoulders.

“Of course,” he says, at once, coming closer to you, pulling you against his shoulder; shaking, a little, himself. His sudden horror at himself is evident in his face – if there’s one thing come of this, you think, smiling into his collarbone, it’s that Tyelperinquar will be _terribly_ reluctant to ask for information you don’t want to give.

“Thank you, Tyelpe,” you say, faintly, as if all at once overwhelmed. “I didn’t – but – _thank_ you – “

“I wish I’d come _sooner_ ,” Tyelperinquar says, voice roughening with pain; and it takes hardly any effort to pretend at exhausted relief, pressing yourself more closely into his touch.

***

You make a face as Tyelperinquar rewraps your bandages, his hands steady as at any craft. You had him sit with you while the healer prodded at the wounds over your back – that is, you hesitated, wide-eyed as a prey animal, when she asked if you wanted him to leave, and let him hear your small intakes of breath as she stitched the worst of them.

You told him you would prefer _him_ to care for you, after that. You think he flinches more than you do, when dressing a half-healed graze restarts a sluggish flow of blood.

It shouldn’t have been more than a day’s travel back to the city, but the journey goes slowly – a detachment left to deal with the captives, swift messengers sent here and there, and your own careful transport back to the city, seated astride a ploddingly docile horse which bears a Maia with no more interest than a sack of grain.

(“I don’t want to stay _here_ ,” you had told Tyelperinquar, pale and indignant, letting him see you bristle when he suggested you wait for better conveyance; letting, too, your hands shake, just slightly. His response had all the alacrity you could desire, even if you found yourself regretting it just a little, when the ride left abused muscles tired and aching.)

The result is that you are encamped still some hours away from Ost-in-Edhil, listening to the crackle of the fire outside the tent. You ate, for once, your body seizing upon the proteins and complex organic acids; you can still taste meat and fat between your teeth.

“If only I’d seen it – “ you say, after a while, uncertainly.

Tyelperinquar’s hands still. Then he rests a hand upon your shoulder, gently, and you lean back into the touch.

“This wasn’t your fault,” he says, soft but fierce. “Annatar, it _wasn’t_."

You look to one side, your hair falling around your face, hiding your expression. You are almost excessively fond of Tyelperinquar, at times.

You have, after all, suffered in pursuit of your goals, even if not quite as Tyelperinquar thinks. You can allow yourself some satisfaction at the results.

“Of course not,” you say, as if feeling the words out. “But still – I’m hardly foolish enough to think this was _random_ , Tyelperinquar. Don’t pretend that you are, either.”

He runs a hand through your hair, soothing.

“When we get home,” he says, still gentle, and you tip your head back, letting him comb out the weight of it, spilling down your back to hide the blood still showing through the gauze.

***

“They spoke of _allies_ ,” you tell your audience, pale and troubled. “Someone _knew_ to look for me – and for the Rings.”

You glance around, meeting eyes. Tyelperinquar is still all solicitude, but with a slight frown of concentration between his brows, as he directs himself to the problem; Celeborn, across the table from him, bears himself gravely, deep in thought.

Galadriel is tense as a bowstring, her eyes fierce. You give her a wan smile.

The calculation here is a little more delicate. Tyelperinquar is already yours, but these others need to be won over – and your intention is to give the impression of an ordeal nobly endured, not to make yourself _pathetic_.

“How much did they know?” she asks, leaning forward in her seat. “Did they say why they sought them, or – “

You spread your hands, helpless, the motion showing the bruising at your wrists.

“They told me very little,” you say, regretfully. “I don’t know. I’m not sure that what they _did_ know was all truth, come to that, though they must have had some desperate cause to bring them to such lengths. You know how little mortals understand of what they call _magic_.” You see Celeborn’s brief nod of agreement, in the corner of your eye. “Still, I – “

You hesitate, as if uncertain, pleased at how they hang on your words.

“I might have thought – that there was some trace of one of _my_ kind upon them. Scarcely even an impression, but…“ You shrug, the motion constrained by the ache in your shoulders. “They knew more than they _should_. Unless you think there could be some traitor among our own, perhaps – “

“Never of their own free will,” Celeborn says, at once. “But if you think…”

He trails off, looking troubled. Tyelperinquar glances at him, biting his lip.

Galadriel narrows her eyes.

“Tell me about the Rings,” she says.

You blink.

“I hadn’t thought you were much interested in technical matters,” you say, easily. “But if you think it relevant – the principle is simple, though not always easily approximated in the Elven tongues. I don’t recall, how much background do you have in set theory – “

“Cousin,” Tyelperinquar says, and you glance round to stare at him. He isn’t looking at you; instead he meets Galadriel’s eyes, expression flat. “You _know_ what the Rings are for. Healing, preservation – “

“They’re more than that,” Galadriel says, tightly. “I’m not such a fool that I can’t see it, Celebrimbor. I don’t doubt your intentions, but if your works have brought one of Morgoth’s old servants to our doorstep, we need to _know_.”

“You’re putting the conclusion before the evidence,” Tyelperinquar says, his voice even. “If we – “

“She may be right,” you say, tentatively, and watch them both round to look at you in turn. “It’s true enough that the Rings have power. And this sort of tactic certainly has _something_ of Melkor’s style; I’ve seen his work before.”

“So _tell_ me,” Galadriel snaps, her voice hard with command, leaning across the table. “ _What_ do the Rings – “

You startle back.

She goes still. You settle your hands, carefully, on the table, just visibly shaking.

“Enough,” Tyelperinquar says, at once, shoving his chair back to come to your side. “Cousin, that’s _enough_. Here, Annatar.”

He takes your hand, and you give him a tremulous smile, then make an attempt at turning it on Galadriel and her husband. She looks as profoundly disconcerted as you have ever seen her, and the upward curve of your mouth is, for a moment, far too genuine, as you let Tyelperinquar pull you away.

***

You prod at a wound on your inner arm, sitting on the bedspread as Tyelperinquar rearranges the side-table nearby, with quick, distracted gestures.

There are ways to ensure swifter healing – shedding your form, sloughing off and remaking the flesh that holds you. The slow process of cellular division and regeneration is becoming a continual, discomfiting irritation; you can’t help but want it to be _done_.

Your hand slips, involuntarily, and you find you – your body – it makes a sound of pain, without your intending to do so. A thread of blood runs from your fingers as you snatch them back.

Tyelperinquar is there at once, grasping for your hands, and you hiss at him and yank away.

“Annatar, _what_ – “

“Is _everything_ an interrogation with you,” you say, annoyed, and he stiffens, his hands falling to his sides.

“I didn’t mean,” he starts to say, thinly, and stalls.

You shake your head, dismissively, and look down at your arm.

“The Rings ought really to be useful for this sort of thing, once they’re done,” you say, biting at the inside of your mouth as you touch the messy incision again. You keep _reacting_ to it; as soon as it hurts you can hardly think of anything else.

You don’t –

 _You could make it stop_ , you remember, and shove the thought away.

“Bandages,” you say, abruptly, and watch Tyelperinquar hurry to obey, coming back and hesitating before settling down beside you to begin wrapping the wound again.

You watch him for a while, the precise, very careful movements of his hands, as he bites his lip in unhappy concentration.

You _do_ feel affection for him, after all. Tyelperinquar has been more than useful.

“Tyelpe,” you say, at length, gently, as he finishes. He looks up at you, and you touch his face.

“This can be worth it,” you say, and smile at him. “Just think – we _know_ our enemies, now. We have what they want. This wasn’t _your_ fault, either.”

“It’s only – “

He falters.

“Tyelperinquar,” you say, leaning closer, running your fingers through his hair; pulling him in, until he bends his head, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “What is it?”

“ _Do_ we know?” he says, muffled against you, and then raises his head, meeting your eyes. “We don’t – I don’t regret killing the mortals who hurt you, Annatar, but they were being used, too. I’m worried there’s more here than – than we – “

You straighten your spine, shoving him back.

“They _hurt_ me,” you hiss, suddenly furious. “Is that not _enough_ for you? Why can’t you just _believe_ me – “

“Annatar,” he says, eyes widening, starting to reach out and then pulling away, his voice shaking. “That’s not what I meant, of course I – “

“You still don’t _trust_ me,” you say, baring your teeth. “ _What_ is so _difficult_ about it, Tyelperinquar? _Why_ can you not just _listen_ to me – “

Isn’t it enough that you have _done_ this, you think, hot with anger. You want this to be _over_ ; you want it to be _enough_.

“Annatar – “ he says, again, and puts a hand over his face, his shoulders hitching.

The body’s reactions, that insists on feeling pain, regardless of its wearer’s wishes; that you have used, time and time again.

You think about the Rings, and everything you will make with Tyelperinquar, that will make all your work worthwhile, in the end.

“Tyelpe,” you say, eventually, and hold out a hand. “Tyelperinquar. It’s alright. Only – you have to trust me, that’s all. Come here,” you say, making yourself smile at him. “We can fix this. Trust me, and we can fix _everything_.”

 


End file.
